


No Sleep Till Brooklyn

by puddingontheritz



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Alcohol/Drug Use, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mature Competent Somewhat Professional Gays, Polyamory, Seriously I'm A Babe In The Woods, am i doing this right, baby's first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-10-28 09:23:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puddingontheritz/pseuds/puddingontheritz
Summary: Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Pat’s being paranoid. Whatever the cause of the distance, it probably wouldn’t kill Pat to be a bit more professional at work.





	1. Brian David Energy

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic, a solid decade since I wrote any prose fiction at all, these old bones are creaky af and this work is unbeta'd* but we're doing our best out here!!! 
> 
> *I do not know what this means and I'm frankly too afraid to ask

It started with Brian inviting everyone to a show on Friday. 

Normally Pat would skip it—Brian’s band is fine, just not really Pat’s thing—but the bar is like five minutes away from the office, so Pat feels like he should at least make an appearance. Besides, lately he’s noticed Brian becoming more...distant isn’t the word; they’re still friendly at work, Brian still shoots off dank memes to the #fuckery Slack thread and stops by Pat’s desk for a chat on his way to refresh his coffee. Even so, Pat can’t help but feel a slight cooling off in their relationship. Brian doesn’t laugh quite as easily at Pat’s jokes, and there are fewer on-air slip-ups. The Unraveled _ Oh, Daddy _incident didn’t get as much of a rise out of Brian as Pat had expected.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Pat’s being paranoid. Maybe the bloom’s just off the Polygon rose, a little bit. Brian’s been on the scene for a couple years at this point; it was natural that he’d eventually relax into more normal coworker relationships now that he isn’t the starry-eyed new kid. He couldn’t look at Pat like he shits sunlight and moonbeams forever. 

Also (and Pat feels guilty even thinking it), there’s the straightening-out of Brian’s whole vibe. It could be that Brian’s started to chafe under the yolk of what the Internet calls his “chaotic bi energy,” and his and Pat’s weird chemistry is a casualty of that. The Tom Selleck ’stache, the selfies with Karen, distancing himself from Pat ever so slightly...it doesn’t feel like an accident, is all. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with Karen. Karen is great, obviously. It’s not like Brian spending more time with Karen means she’s—what, his _ beard? _ It's 2019, are beards even a thing? Pat squirms guiltily again and shuts down that train of thought once and for all, refocusing on the half-edited footage in front of him. Not remotely his business. Whatever the cause of the distance, it probably wouldn’t kill Pat to be a bit more professional at work. 

*** 

When Friday rolls around, a bunch of them set out for the bar together, planning to get food and hang out for a while first. Tara saw them off; Simone wasn’t able to convince her to join them, so she just leaned smirking against her office door, saying, “You kids be good, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” and taking a pull on a comically huge Coke Zero. She’d raised the spectre of relaunching Gill and Gilbert at the pitch meeting earlier, and a bunch of people (including Karen) had made excited noises. Simone huffed “GOD yes,” and planted both hands on the boardroom table in ecstasy. Clayton suggested a rotating cast of guest third-chairs, who could moderate chat and pick the segments. 

“I mean, I guess at that point it could be Whoever and Whoever; just because we’re the only ones with matching names doesn’t mean it has to be us,” Pat laughed. To his chagrin, he noticed himself watching Brian for a reaction, but Brian just nodded thoughtfully and jotted something down in his sparkly blue notebook. If he was honest, Pat wasn’t sure he could face another round of G&G—the attention, the lack of a script, the close proximity to Brian all made him squirm like no other on-camera work did. Pat had worked hard in the last year to manage his visible embarrassment reactions on camera, but this seemed like tempting fate, especially if Brian had decided he didn’t want to dance quite so close to the line with Pat anymore. He’d rather go back to the weird audience fixation on his arm than have his every blush open to dissection by a bunch of thirsty strangers.

He’s still mulling this over as they walk in the door of the bar, Simone stage-whispering a crack about fake dive bars as they slide into one of the booths to one side of the small dance floor. Looking around, Pat has to agree that the ambience leaves something to be desired; between the college-dorm furnishings, the generic Lumineers-y folk playing in the background and the beautiful twentysomethings lounging everywhere, he feels decidedly not at home and again considers claiming a headache and bouncing early. 

But then Brian and his band are onstage for their sound check, and Karen is whooping out a little cheer and making Brian grin over at them, and Pat grips his gin and soda and recommits to the long haul. _ You’ll survive staying out past 10 pm on a Friday for once in your goddamn life. _

***

The set is fine; Brian’s banter with the guitarist is charming, and he slides smoothly from returning serve on his sister’s heckles to cooing his way through earnest, lovelorn ballads. A few times Pat notices that Brian closes his eyes during particularly juicy harmonies. _ Corny, but effective, _Pat thinks, as the hairs on his arms stand at attention.

As the band announces their final song and thanks everyone for coming out, Pat realizes with a start that he’s about to finish his fourth drink; Simone had silently disappeared his empties and replaced them with full drinks twice now, the sneaky minx. She knows Pat is a nervous sipper, and she likes to do what she calls “inviting Poor Decisions Pat out to play” whenever she coaxes him out to work hangs, which is why he frequently skips them. He resolves to switch to water for the next round when Brian sidles up to the group, flushed pink and changed out of his stage clothes into a more relaxed v-neck and jeans.

He’s trying to get everyone to try his new favourite cocktail, something with a dweeby name like Captain’s Daughter. “Too rich for my blood,” Pat demurs, guiltily remembering that payday isn’t until next week and he’s already spent more than he budgeted on Poor Decisions Pat.

“Come on, I’m buying,” Brian wheedles, flapping his bronze-nailed hands dismissively. 

“I know you don’t get paid until next week and I make more than you,” Pat deflects. He can feel himself being kind of a shit, honestly, but he can’t seem to help it.

Brian crosses his arms and meets Pat’s gaze, frowning in a no-nonsense way. “Just let me buy you a drink and say thank you, Pat.” Unable to think of an out in time, Pat concedes, but also can’t help but mutter, “Thank you, Pat,” earning an eye roll from Brian, who claps his shoulder and gives him a parting “attaboy,” swanning off to the bar before he can see Pat blush down to his collar.

Witnessing this exchange, Simone observes, “My sweet baby’s finally found his BDE.” 

“Brian David Energy,” Clayton adds thoughtfully, making Pat spray gin and soda everywhere. So much for being professional.

***

To no one’s surprise, the Captain’s Daughter turns out to be blindingly sweet, and Pat is able to sip it a bit more slowly as the talk turns to new video ideas. Jenna is already in the tank for part two of Overboard: Cyberpunk Red, and she intimates she has big plans for her intrepid all-genders girl gang.

“The Vang0/Chainz ship will be thrilled,” Chelsea grins. 

“No fucking comment,” Pat mutters darkly, earning a curious look from Brian. 

The conversation moves on to Simone’s Pokémon Go crusade, and Pat excuses himself and makes his way to the bar to refill his water.

Brian slips out of the booth and follows him. “Hey, are we okay?”

Pat looks up at him, feeling weirdly caught out. “Of course, why?”

Brian picks at a bit of chipped patina on the bar counter. “I don’t know, you’ve seemed kind of annoyed at me lately or something.”

It’s hard not to warm to Brian’s vulnerable, cards-on-the-table communication style, but there’s no way Pat’s telling him everything that’s been going through his head for the last few weeks. Instead, he says, “I’ve kind of felt the same way about you, actually.” Worrying that sounds passive aggressive as hell, he adds, “Sorry if I’ve been pissy.”

“Nah, you’re good, Pat Gill.” Brian pats Pat’s cheek, swaying slightly. What the hell is even in a Captain’s Daughter? Pat hesitates, then says, “For what it’s worth, I’d love to do Gill and Gilbert again.” 

“Oh my god, me too! That’s some of the most fun I’ve ever had on camera,” Brian bursts out, and his smile is like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Actually, I was thinking about Clayton’s suggestion, and what if we did it, like, game show style? But like, with a different host every time, and we’re always the contestants?” Then he’s off, gesturing expansively with his cocktail as he describes a new harebrained scheme, and Pat does love a good harebrained scheme, god help him. They’re still talking it through when Simone, Karen and Petrana drop by to let them know they’re heading somewhere else to dance and asking if they want to come.

  
Pat opens his mouth to say he’s actually gonna grab a Lyft home and is surprised to hear instead, “Sounds good. Shots first, though.” Simone raises a fist in triumph, while Petrana groans and Karen shakes with silent laughter. Pat signals the bartender and aggressively avoids looking at Brian. _ Easy does it, Poor Decisions Pat. _


	2. Diptych

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s one thing to dance with a bunch of his coworkers; it’s another to dance with Brian David Gilbert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a lil one, because I'm still finding my sea legs with length/pacing. Prose is hard!! Prob got one more chapter in the tank, though.
> 
> Also: look just pretend with me that I know anything about New York or clubbing, I'm An Old and I just wanted to make some boys do a kiss

They emerge into the cool night air, letting the breeze slap them awake after the warm, muddy lighting and soporific music of the bar. Simone leads the way for seven blocks or so, stopping at the lineup in front of what Pat’s relieved to see is a divey blues bar he recognizes favourably. The walk wasn’t so long that he’s had a chance to sober up and rethink his life choices, but he’s not sure he’s in his cups enough to lose himself to dance in another upscale cocktail lounge.

They all rummage for the cover charge and ID, and Pat gets a peek at Brian’s license. “Such baby,” he comments on the now pretty inaccurate photo of a college-age Brian, who was for some reason allowed to smile a real smile in his picture, complete with dimples and a hint of perfect teeth.

Brian grins up at him, inadvertently creating a diptych with the image of his younger self. “Yeah, from my pre-Polygon salad days, before hard living ground me down.”

“Now there’s gamer wisdom behind those eyes.”

“Right, now I know what lurks in the heart of Gooigi.”

They’re in the door now, and the place is already pulsing with bodies and sticky with cheap spilled beer, thank god. Simone gets them a round of PBRs (“Liquor before beer,” she intones sagely) and they thread their way into the throng. The band is passably loud and scuzzy, and Pat lets the natural tide of bodies carry him deeper into the chaos of the dance floor as he finds his rhythm. It’s no surprise that Brian, whom Pat’s seen shimmy and Carlton-dance to the sound of percolating coffee, can apparently dance to anything. Pat laughs out loud under the cover of 110 decibels, just for the joy of moving his body, of being out with his friends, of watching the lithe little goober in front of him moving to the beat like a non-Newtonian fluid. 

Brian looks up, meets Pat’s glance and hits him with a big, full-watt BDG smile. Pat, realizing abruptly that at some point the girls wandered off to the bar and it’s just the two of them on the dance floor, feels suddenly very exposed. It’s one thing to be back on his Gill and Gilbert bullshit; it’s another to consciously flirt in a seedy basement club with his junior colleague who, if it weren’t for the moustache, could easily still be the fresh-faced youth smiling out of his driver’s license photo. It’s one thing to dance with a bunch of his coworkers; it’s another to dance with Brian David Gilbert.

If the same thought has occurred to Brian, he doesn’t let on as he flings himself around like the party demon he is. The mob of people has slowly forced them closer together, until they’re definitely sweating on each other and Pat could count the freckles on Brian’s collarbone and any remaining pretence of propriety is pretty much in tatters. 

Eventually Pat can’t take it anymore. “Fresh air,” he yells futilely into the wall of sound, crushing the remainder of his beer and winding his way out of the throng and towards the door, wondering if he still has that half joint in his wallet. Then Brian’s at his side, fortuitously pulling his own fat little joint out of his back pocket. They join the crowd of people loitering outside and smoke companionably for a while, looking up at the absence of stars and the orgy of twinkling lights in apartment windows overhead.

The door opens again and laughter comes spilling out into the night, followed by Karen and Petrana. “We’re gonna head out,” Karen says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“Kay,” Brian says, smiling a dopey, heavy-lidded smile up at them. “How’re you getting home?”

“Petrana's got an Uber coming. We’re both headed to Bushwick. Simone said to say y’all owe her one more dance.” She links pinkies with Brian. “Text me tomorrow?” Jesus fucking Christ pissing dammit.

“You got it,” Brian murmurs.

Then they’re off stepping into the car and shouting goodnights, and Pat’s formulating a tactful exit strategy and wondering how mad Simone will be if he dips without saying bye.

Brian’s looking at him a bit too closely. “So, dance?” And when he doesn’t respond, “Pat?”

_ Don’t fucking say it. Don’t do this to yourself. There’s still time to go home and jerk off and feel like shit with your dignity intact. _ “So are you and Karen, you know. An item?”

“Sure, grandad, we’re an _ item, _” Brian snorts, blushing just a little. “It’s still pretty new, so we're trying to be low key about it at work, but we like each other, so...yeah.”

The churn of alcohol in Pat’s stomach immediately feels like a sack of bricks. God, he’s tired. “Karen’s a good egg.”

“Yeah, she is,” Brian agrees. He scooches over, closing the distance a bit between them. 

Looking at Pat out of the corner of his eye, he says, “She was laughing at me earlier for being really obvious about trying to get you to take me home.”

Woof. Yikes. Okay. That's a...that's...hm. Pat takes a hit, coughing on the last nub of the joint, as his mind grinds effortfully back into action re-running the numbers. He’s acutely aware of Brian next to him waiting for a reaction. 

“Pretty presumptuous of her,” he eventually manages. Blood is roaring in his ears. He knows his idiot traitor face is lighting up like a Christmas tree.

“Well, it’s not...a one hundred percent inaccurate assessment,” Brian says and moves in even closer, so close that Pat can feel the glow of heat radiating off of him. He smells like mint, Pat realizes; not spearmint chapstick or gum or whatever, but growing mint, hot and potent in the sun. He swallows noisily.

“You could, if you wanted to.” Brian’s giant globes of eyes are still on him. Pat wishes, not for the first time, the man wasn’t such a fiend for eye contact. “No pressure, obviously.”

Abruptly, Pat executive-overrides his seizing brain, which is still trying to think of the right thing to say, and takes Brian's fingers in his. Time to let the ol' body drive for a bit.

It seems like that was the right answer, because Brian leans in, whispering, “Is this okay?” and when Pat nods, kisses his bottom lip gently. A spark zippers up and down Pat’s body, crown to gut, and he deepens the kiss just a little. It’s real good, is the thing—soft and warm and exploratory. When they part, Brian sighs into Pat’s mouth, as if he had been holding his breath.

“So, dance?” he repeats, smiling.

Pat couldn’t deny Simone the chance to take credit for his poor decisions, after all.


	3. Baby Duck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he’s told his brain it’s his body’s turn on the Star Wars, Pat knows he’s going to have a time wresting the controls away, but in the meantime he’s going to enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, made it! Thanks to everyone who said such kind things about the first two chapters and made me want to stick the dismount. It feels really good that somebody wants to read my precious little porn ditties as I learn how to write for fun again. <3 <3

The next hour dissolves into a haze of moments for Pat: more drinks and dancing; surreptitiously sending Simone a heads-up text politely requesting that she _be cool goddammit_; receiving in response a storm of confetti emojis and at least a paragraph of mashing on homerow; stumbling outside with Brian and splitting a gyro, spilling a metric fuckton of hot sauce on his shirt and somehow finding it hilarious rather than mortifying, especially when Brian loses it at Pat’s colon-square-bracket look of dismay and collapses into giggles on his shoulder, hands warm on Pat’s hips.

Somewhere in the blur, Pat has a chance to register the thought that he can’t remember the last time it was this easy—the last time _ he _ was this easy, smiling naturally like a person and knowing exactly where to put his hands and revelling in his good luck, rather than preemptively mourning the moment when he inevitably manages to fuck it up somehow.

Standing on the sidewalk dabbing his shirt with the billionth napkin, Pat finally conjures the cojones to ask, “Wanna head out?”

Brian gives a wide crocodile grin, his eyes boring a hole in Pat's brain. “What are you implying, Pat Gill?”

This little shit, sweet lord. “Are you gonna make me say it?”  
  
“I’m absolutely gonna make you say it.”

Pat feels like a baby bird—he’s been given all the tools for success, and now there’s nothing for it but the flying. He curls one hand around Brian's waist and kisses him with all the conviction he can summon in front of a handful of strangers and one gyro cart. “Come home with me?”

***

Pat preemptively leaves an extremely apologetic tip for the driver, and it turns out to be a good thing because Brian does not mess around. On the ride home, Pat’s barely in his seatbelt when Brian leans in and wraps one hand firmly around the base of his neck while the other creeps insidiously up his thigh. Before he has a chance to spare a thought for Khalil, who’s just on his grind in the gig economy and doesn’t need this horny bullshit in the back of his Honda Accord, Pat’s already responding in kind, grabbing a fistful of jean jacket and gamely meeting Brian’s tongue with his own. Now that he’s told his brain it’s his body’s turn on the Star Wars, Pat knows he’s going to have a time wresting the controls away, but in the meantime he’s going to enjoy it. 

***

He’s feeling wildly overconfident by the time they make it up to his apartment, even attempting the cool guy maneuver of backing them down the hall to his room without coming up for air, even though he knows it’s a varsity move and he’s very much a bench player at this point. He’s punished for his hubris, banking off of the dresser and earning a couple of nasty bruises on his thigh. 

Still, it’s worth it when they topple on the comforter and Brian climbs up to straddle him, pulling his shirt off with both hands in one swift motion (damn, another varsity move, the guy’s a pro) and...wowsers. Look, it’s not like Pat’s a stranger to Brian’s whole upstairs situation, at least the gist of it—the guy’s not shy, and that Vang0 Bang0 getup didn’t leave much to the imagination—but he’s still hungrily taking in the thatch of chest hair, the soft fluid lines from pecs to torso to merest suggestion of pubic bone. It’s enough to get his dick’s attention, anyway, a fact that Brian can’t help but notice from his vantage point. “Hello, _ sailor_,” he giggles, wiggling his hips, which earns him a pillow to the face. 

“Oh, fuck _ off,” _Pat howls, covering his face with both arms.

“Oh no, I’m sorry!” Brian laughs, scurrying up Pat’s body to kiss him apologetically on the chin, on the cheek, on the throat while fumbling with the buttons of Pat’s shirt. 

“Be nice to me, I’m just a fragile pile of bones,” Pat groans from beneath his arms. By way of a peace offering, Brian wiggles into Pat’s side and trails a hand lightly along his now-exposed chest, down his stomach and over the tightening front of his jeans. That ghost of a touch is enough to make Pat shiver with longing, a sensation exacerbated by Brian trailing reverent kisses along his jaw. Suddenly, Brian presses lightly down on Pat’s groin and Pat fully gasps with the shock of pleasure. This is too much for Brian, apparently, who sits up and tugs Pat’s belt buckle open, fairly ripping it out of the loops with one hand while deftly working Pat’s fly with the other. “Shirt off, mister.”

Wriggling his arms free and throwing his shirt across the room, Pat’s anticipation is suddenly intruded upon by the thought of seeing Karen three desks over on Monday. _ Text me tomorrow?_ Pat quickly submerges the idle thought, settling back on the pillows and recentering on Brian, who’s worked his way down Pat’s torso and is nipping playfully at his hip bone, moustache tickling just a little. _ Don’t get rattled now, you’re doing so well. _ Intrusive thoughts happen during sex, Pat reasons, like accidentally thinking about somebody’s grandma. Shit, now he’s thinking about somebody’s grandma! Focus the fuck up, Gill!

Perhaps feeling Pat stiffen, Brian slows his inexorable journey towards the dewy front of Pat’s boxers. “You good?” he breathes into Pat’s inner thigh, watching Pat’s expression.

“Yeah, I’m just…” Pat sighs, finding the bottom of his strategic bravado reserve. “Just feeling kind of weird.”

“About Karen?” Pat nods. 

Brian climbs back up to the top of the bed and stretches out alongside Pat, resting one hand lightly on his chest. “Wanna talk about it?”

Pat doesn’t, particularly, but at least he finds it much easier now that he’s looking at the ceiling rather than directly into the high-beams of Brian’s gaze. “How did you...this?” he pulls together, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. 

Apparently this translates, because Brian makes a soft thinking noise. “I don’t know, back in college all my relationships kept going sideways and I didn’t understand why**, **and at some point I just realized it was because I usually like more than one person at a time. So now I only date people who are cool with that.”

Pat’s quiet for a moment, frowning as he struggles to assemble the right words. “I can like exactly one person at a time.”

Brian’s fingers are twirling soothing loops along Pat’s collarbone. “Yeah?”

“I mean I’m not gonna imprint on you like a baby duck, but...yeah.” 

Brian snuggles in. “Well, I’m flattered.”

And surprisingly, that’s enough for Pat. That’s what he needed to know—what he needed Brian to know. The tension drains out of his back and shoulders like water out of a bath, and on an impulse he pulls Brian in close, wrapping both arms around him. For a while they just lie like that, making out like teenagers, drinking from a languid, luxurious, bottomless well of affection. Now and again Pat catches that wild mint fragrance, and he drinks it in greedily.

Now that his brain isn’t doing donuts around his libido, Pat’s cock twitches hopefully between them. “Can I touch you?” Brian asks into Pat’s mouth. “Fuck yeah,” Pat breathes back. He groans as Brian plunges a hand down the front of his boxers and takes him in hand, sliding his thumb through a ropey mess of precum. Brian’s other hand comes to brace alongside Pat’s head as he jerks Pat off with some real intent. He fixes him with that incandescent stare and murmurs, “Hell, Pat, I’m so into you.”

“Fuck _ me, _ ” Pat bites, arching his back and grabbing fistfuls of comforter, needing to hold onto something and casting wildly for any thought that’ll tether him to earth—_where’s somebody’s grandma when you need them—_he’s desperate to make it last, to stay in this moment for as long as possible, but Brian’s merciless now, twisting his hand wickedly and grinding his crotch into Pat’s leg.

And then without warning Pat’s rocketing over the edge, his mind lurching upward out of his body and his heart hammering against his chest and he’s dimly aware that he’s yelling but his ears are ringing too loudly for him to hear; he’s trembling with a depth and breadth of sensation he frankly didn’t know was possible for him, a revelatory pleasure on par with the first time he orgasmed in his teens and thought_ huh, okay, I guess bodies can do that_. He’s floating in space and there’s neon skywriting exploding against the blackness of his vision, and if he wasn’t so lost in the uproar of his body he could almost read what it says.

When he’s back in his mind once again, Pat’s aware of Brian watching him with a shit-eating grin, cheek propped on one hand while the other strokes languorously through the trickle of come cascading down Pat’s head.

"_Jesus_, Brian. Shit.” Pat pushes a sweaty mop of hair out of his eyes and pulls Brian in for a kiss. Brian hums happily in response, smirking against Pat’s mouth.

Pat could easily pass out exactly like this if he’s not careful, but he can’t let Brian do all the showboating. He hooks an ankle around Brian’s calf and flips them both over, thrilling in his stomach at the feeling of power and the surprise on Brian's face. “Your turn,” he says, and unbuttons Brian’s pants with what he hopes is a darkly alluring smoulder. 

Brian’s cackles in delight as Pat yanks off pants and boxer briefs in one swift motion. “Patrick, you sly dog, this is not your first rodeo!”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been thrown by way more broncs than I’ve ridden,” he responds, running his hands experimentally down Brian’s thighs.

Before either of them can work out what this means, Pat’s examining Brian’s length thoroughly with lips and tongue and fingers. It’s a real cute, stout little number, just a perfect mushroom of a cock. Spurred on by Brian’s musical susurrations, Pat takes the head into his mouth and sinks slowly down, tightening his throat around Brian’s dick. Brian sighs encouragingly. 

It’s been a while since he took his gag reflex out for a spin, but Pat thinks he could probably deepthroat this baby. He’s struck by the memory of choking noisily on his ex’s strap-on and feels emboldened to try. Cautiously, he sinks even deeper, swallowing Brian whole without too much trouble. His eyes water, but he finds his rhythm quickly as muscle memory takes over, and Brian rewards him with a string of obscenities and a half-buck of the hips. Pat can feel Brian holding back, so without breaking stride, he grabs Brian’s twitching hand and places it firmly at the nape of his neck.

Brian takes the hint and lets rip, using both hands to hold Pat in place and fucking into him with a twenty-five year old’s gusto. Pat feels it savoury and bitter at the back of his throat when Brian eventually comes sobbing his name, hands clenched in the wreck of Pat’s hair. He chances a glance up and is struck by the vision of Brian, eyes wide open like he’s witnessing a revelation, mouth a perfect, comical ‘o,’ hair a halo around his flushed face. It’s enough to make Pat’s spent dick pulse with one final extinction burst of lust, and he takes the time to memorize the image as he works his tongue over Brian’s slit and his hand gently up and down his throbbing shaft.

Brian gives a deep, contented sigh as he returns to earth and smiles down the length of his body at Pat, who can’t seem to stop staring at the beautiful man in front of him. Suddenly embarrassed by the tenderness of Brian’s gaze and the hand stroking his hair, Pat touches his nose to the head of Brian’s dick, says “boop,” and shimmies back up the length of the bed to lie next to Brian, who giggles and pulls him in for a proper snuggle.

When he’s finally all the way back in his senses, Pat gets up, pulls on a shirt and shuffles out to get them a couple of warm washcloths and glasses of water. Everything’s muted with early morning stillness, so Pat jumps when Charles comes padding into the kitchen after him and wails his displeasure at having been ignored for so long. The little bastard twists affectionately around Pat’s ankles and flops down to expose his soft grey belly. Pat laughs and crouches down to oblige with a rub. “Big mood, buddy.”

***

Some relationships seem both unlikely and inevitable; people appear and fit into your life as comfortably as a hot knife in butter, remaking your world around them. The weeks go by much the same as they did before, but on Sundays Brian usually comes over to Pat's and brings him dinner post-stream. Sometimes Pat has lunch with Brian and Karen and they yell about art horror movies or drag each other for their particular varietals of trash.

Simone draws on a previously unknown reservoir of restraint, only remarking to Pat once in passing that he seems happy lately. Pat’s clicking through Brian’s latest pictures from his trip home, snorting affectionately at his jort crimes. “Yeah,” he says easily, tabbing back over to the Sekiro video he’s editing and smoothing out whatever facial expression betrayed him a moment ago. “I am.”


End file.
